


A Lever Long Enough

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, F/M, Gen, Mind Games, Singapore, rare pair bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes receives a mysterious summons from halfway across the world, and he races to answer it. But is the Woman who sent it in danger, or is it something more... satisfying?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lever Long Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo for the prompt "help".

 

>   _Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world._ \- Archimedes

 

The email was as short as it was anonymous.  
  
"Come to Singapore immediately. No disguises."  
  
It was the message's anonymity that told Sherlock Holmes who sent it, because there was only one person in the world who would need such anonymity, only one person in the world who could convey so much in so very little and still remain an utter mystery to him in her motives.  
  
The late Irene Adler.  
  
He knew well enough that she was in no immediate danger, because her message contained no code, no oddly worded phrases that would flag his attention. Furthermore, she would never contact him for help even if she were in danger; her pride would never allow her to, a fact that both irritated Sherlock to no end and made him respect her all the more.  
  
She made him feel such contradictions. She made him _feel_ , period.  
  
But clearly there was something in Singapore that had caught her attention, that she expected would catch his attention as well. Something that he needed to be Sherlock Holmes to appreciated, something that was not their games of deduction and chase.  
  
So he made an excuse, feigned a case, and flew to Singapore on the next flight out.  
  
He arrived in Singapore with nothing but his travel documents and his wallet and headed straight for the luggage area of the airport, intending to liberate one of the unclaimed pieces for any necessities before he began tracking down the Woman. It would provide him with a few moments of amusement, as well, to deduce the contents of the bags in question. However, the Woman's plan seemed to have anticipated this as well, as a small, sleek leather suitcase was waiting in the lost luggage, no identification upon it except a red silk ribbon and the faint scent of Casmir.  
  
Left maybe three hours before his arrival, unless he missed his guess.  
  
Sherlock found himself smiling, intrigued, as he scrutinized the bag, and unerringly opened the front pocket. A single sheet of paper and a hotel room keycard fell out.  
  
The Fairmont Singapore. And the note (left handed, male, 28 year old, concierge too busy eyeing the Woman's decolletage) was for a reservation in the hotel's bar and restaurant. A quick check at his mobile, and Sherlock winced. An hour to the reservation time. The Woman had read him _perfectly_. And it was irritating how the sense of respect welled unconsciously within him at the thought. She _was_ rather good.  
  
Not that he'd admit it again in her presence.  
  
He took a taxi from the airport to the hotel in question, went immediately to the room. The Woman's presence was obvious within it, from the freshly pressed sheath dress hanging from the armoire (delivered to the room that morning) to the set of luxury luggage standing in the corner. Sherlock avoided the luggage in his deduction, he knew the contents within were equally luxurious, but haphazardly tossed in, liable to erupt in a torrent of wrinkled designer clothing and jewelry should he breach the zipper, and give the Woman irrefutable proof that he'd been snooping.  
  
Makeup in the washroom told him what shade of lipstick to look for (blood), and the hair on her brush told him she was growing out her hair again. But that was all he had time for, besides a quick look in the mirror, a quick splash of water on his face to wipe away the obvious signs of travel fatigue from his eyes. A smirk played on his lips as he regarded himself, then headed down to the lift, to the hotel bar in question.  
  
He saw her immediately, sitting at the bar, facing the expansive lobby entrance. Her eyes met his, and a familiar smirk deepened the enigmatic smile of her deep red lips. Her hair was pulled up in a neat twist, a few stray curls framing her face, her black dress eye catching and highlighting the appealing expanse of pale, flawless skin. He did not have to look to know she was wearing heels, confident, towering heels that not only shaped her already shapely calves but made men quail despite themselves upon hearing their staccato beat.  
  
A middle aged financial type sat across from her, his back towards Sherlock. Expensive suit, cut just a shade too broad in the shoulders to accommodate shoulder pads, no doubt to present a better, more intimidating silhouette. His hair was unnaturally dark, and did not move, clearly dyed to cover premature grey and over-producted, a man with means but not enough confidence to disregard his shortcomings. He leaned towards the Woman, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious way he attempted to seduce her, by leaning in, making some comment, just quiet enough that it would require her to lean in, to catch the scent of his expensive cologne.

Sherlock considered the situation, surely there was something _here_ that the Woman thought he'd find interesting, and he wanted to find it before she did. But just as he began scanning the room (cocktail waitress was the mother of two, supplemented her income from serving drinks by introducing female escorts to well-to-do business travelers), he saw movement at the Woman's seat, her hand waving him towards her and the odious man, and he frowned, his initial reaction to resist. But curiosity overcame him and he headed for her, and as he came close, her smile softened, grew affectionate, and his curiosity grew. She was playing a game, no doubt at the banker's expense; their affections were not so easily worn on their faces. They communicated their sentiment in silence, in touches and the spaces in-between words, not in the affectionate smile curving her blood red lips, or the way she slid off her bar stool to reach for him.

“Hello, darling,” she greeted him, reaching for his arm as she settled her other hand on her banker victim's shoulder, to keep him from leaving either. That too, was unlike Irene Adler, whose touches bit with pain and leather, not with soft fingers and gentle strokes. Sherlock began to rethink his assumptions, his calculation that she was not in danger. Otherwise why would she be acting so obviously unlike herself? “I have just been having the most interesting chat with this gentleman. He's from London as well, on travel.”

The man turned to greet Sherlock, a bland nonthreatening smile on his face, as if he had not simply seconds ago ogling the decolletage of the Woman and contemplating the dull things he'd like to do to her, but the expression became one of utter shock as his eyes landed on Sherlock, and Sherlock realized the man who had been attempting to seduce the Woman was Sebastian Wilkes.

Sebastian looked frozen with shock, but Sherlock reacted quicker, his gaze immediately meeting Irene's. Her smile was sharp and wicked, her eyes dancing with glittering, vindictive glee, and Sherlock knew in that instant that this had been the reason she'd brought him to Singapore, that she had somehow discovered who Sebastian Wilkes was, what his relationship had been to Sherlock, and she had orchestrated the entire trip around the world simply to watch the recognition flash over Sherlock's face, as the puzzle pieces clicked in Sherlock's mind, and he realized what an opportunity she'd just provided him.

Admiration and desire for the Woman's viciousness, her intellectual abilities to manipulate the pieces from halfway across the world with little more than six words in an anonymous email, shot through Sherlock, sending blood racing southward as his hand found the Woman's, pulling her towards him and guiding her arm around his waist. He kissed her first, a seemingly chaste kiss on the lips, except she smiled against the kiss at the way his fingers curled around her wrist at his waist. Her pulse was quick, excited, pleased, and Sherlock expected his was the same. No doubt she already read it all on him, in the dilation of his eyes, in the way he gripped her.

He pulled away from her reluctantly, and gave his old schoolmate a wide smile. “Seb Wilkes,” he said, falsely hearty. The Woman's presence did as it always did, make him want to show off, and this time he embraced the thrill of rubbing his schoolmate's nose in every idiotic thing he had ever said about Sherlock. “We've met before. Schoolmates.”

The explanation seemed to shake Sebastian out of his shock, and he shook his head, blinking quickly. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, with a false bravado that could not hide his disbelief as he looked from Sherlock to the Woman in the fitted black dress now on his arm. Sebastian's eyes lingered on the Woman's lips as he wet his own nervously. “I didn't realize you knew Anthea here.”

Sherlock's smile widened as he looked down at her, and she smirked back unrepentantly, an eyebrow arched as if daring him to contradict her. It was, after all, a near perfect alias. If Mycroft got wind of Sherlock's unexpected trip to Singapore, he'd investigate but finding only a woman named Anthea would assume it was an obvious ploy of Sherlock's to throw him off the scent, would never look too deep into the generic description of a dark haired woman named Anthea.

“Yes, we've been together for years, haven't we?” Irene said smoothly, resting her head against Sherlock's shoulder, every inch the indulgent paramour, all adoration and easy affection, the gesture provoking another wide-eyed look from his old schoolmate, who at this point was starting to bear an uncanny resemblance to a dead goldfish, his skin pale and slack as he tried to reconcile the very _idea_ of Sherlock Holmes the freak back in school with the image of the man standing in front of him, his arm curled possessively around an intensely attractive woman who was perfectly content to be there and did not in the slightest seem likely to throw a drink in his face. “We met during a case, wasn't it?”

Sherlock wanted to laugh as Sebastian's jaw worked, his lips mouthing the word 'case' in disbelief. “A case,” he echoed, gesturing to Irene, then Sherlock. A barely detectable note of relief entered his voice, as if he had discovered the fatal flaw of the whole charade, that 'Anthea' was somehow like Sherlock, and that would explain the attraction. “So you're one of them like him, a 'consulting detective'?”

Irene gave Sherlock a look, and he laughed at the way her eyes gleamed, at the way she was playing Sebastian Wilkes. It sent another shot of desire down Sherlock's spine, and he considered whether it would be more satisfying to continue watching the Woman spin his arrogant schoolmate in circles or to excuse themselves immediately and make their way back to her hotel room before he had her. “Not at all, I'm in public relations. Politicians and the like are my specialty,” she answered. She rested a red-tipped finger on Sherlock's lapel. “We met when he was asked to consult on a bit of a public relations nightmare with a client.”

Sherlock's smirk deepened at her description and revised his own estimate. He doubted he'd be able to wait until they made it all the way back to the hotel room to have her, at this rate. The lift, possibly. “Remember that particular client likes to remain anonymous, dear,” he reminded her, the affectionate nickname sitting oddly on his tongue, though from reading Sebastian he knew it was the correct one to have used. 'Dear' was superficial, meaningless. Irene Adler, in his mind, deserved a far more worthy title. It was why he called her the Woman. The one Woman who mattered.

Not that Sebastian would understand, not that _he_ mattered.

He gave Sebastian a friendly grin, a confidante's laugh, as he added, “Enough to say that it was a young royal person.”

Sebastian laughed weakly, and gave 'Anthea' another look, as if expecting her to correct Sherlock, to dispel the illusion that had wrapped around them, the idea that Sherlock had somehow metamorphised from a maladjusted schoolboy to someone whose commanded the affection of a woman and whose profession was demanded by royal personages. Irene simply smiled serenely back at him, unwilling to break the illusion, and Sebastian reached for his tie and pulled futilely at the knot, as if it were a physical thing that discomfited him. Irene leaned up to press another light kiss to Sherlock's mouth, arching subtly so that her breasts pressed against his front and her thigh against his mostly concealed erection, and chuckled low in her throat.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wilkes,” she said, offering him a hand to shake when she pulled away from Sherlock. “But unfortunately I think we have reservations for dinner, don't we, darling?” Sebastian Wilkes' hand was clammy with sweat, his grip stunned to an anemic, ineffectual grip. Irene eyed the way his left hand gripped his phone, no doubt to text old friends.

“Yes, dinner. For once I think I'm famished,” came Sherlock's answer. She watched as Sebastian Wilkes offered Sherlock the same weak handshake, which Sherlock returned with a grip that was perhaps a trifle too firm but he'd never notice. “Good to see you again, Seb. We'll see each other in London again?” Sebastian Wilkes made a strangled noise that could have been agreement, and Sherlock turned away almost immediately, steering the Woman with him towards the lobby and the bank of lifts back up to the hotel.

“You moved me halfway around the world just to help you make a mediocre banker choke on his drink?” Sherlock asked, feigned cool disdain in his voice. He had no illusions that he was fooling the Woman; she saw through him far more easily than he liked, and the fact that she had arranged this entire game told him that she'd known exactly what his reaction would be.

She laughed in response, a low pleased purr that made him positively itch to feel her beneath his hands, that made him want nothing more than to press her up against the hall right then, in full view of the bar and the hotel lobby, to catch her mouth with his and taste the secrets that she carried on her tongue. “Admit it, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, her steps in time with his, her arm snaked around his waist to twine with his fingers, her body warm and soft against him, the knowledge of how well she'd played him, how brilliantly her mind worked spurring him on. She gave him a sidelong look, her pupils dilated, her lips quirked up in a sinful smirk. “You enjoyed helping me dissuade an idiot from trying to buy me dinner.”

He found himself smiling back as they neared the lift, as she stepped in front of him to press the button to call one and he stepped close behind her, his finger closing over hers on the button. Her body molded against his, momentarily caught between him and the marble paneled wall and, even without seeing her, Sherlock knew she was smiling, pleased and smug, as she pressed back against him with appealing warmth and promised friction. “Perhaps,” he allowed, his voice a low growl that threatened to become a groan as she moved against him. “But don't think you're getting away without dinner, Miss Adler.”


End file.
